Western Short StoryJacques Cree and the High Camp Stand-offTom Sheehan

Western Short Story

In
the midst of deep thought in the fire-lit line cabin, solitude
pleasantly surrounding him, ranch hand Pete Binchey heard the low,
menacing, yet alerting growl of Jacques Cree come from the corner
where his bed was. Slowly, in the shadows, as if not even disturbing
the air or the meager illumination about his body, the wolf dog rose
from rest, lowered his head, set his eyes on Binchey as though
demanding attention, and stood immobile. In a quick series of images,
the middle-aged cowboy saw the past history of the animal and the
forebears that had nurtured the wolf dog’s being. Nothing sounded
in the cabin, and no sounds came from the narrow pass beyond them,
where the Drago Mountain range had once been parted by huge glacier
sleds of ice. But Jacques Cree was frozen in place. A bare breath of
air moved from his throat, a paw rose in some kind of memory, some
kind of message. Pete Binchey trusted every move the wolf dog had
ever made.

The
day had had such a good start.

Earlier,
in the chill of morning, new ranch hand Pete Binchey left the small
one-room cabin in the foothills of the Drago Mountains, his two
horses heavy with chain and rope for hauling firewood, and the proud
and faithful wolf dog, Jacques Cree, loping wide of the horses,
forever keeping under cover. No training on Binchey’s part had
produced such behavior in the dog. Old survival genes and inherited
shyness and slyness kept the animal among trees and boulders, bush
and brush, shade and shadow, always on the prowl. Jacques Cree, six
years old, part wolf and part herd dog, rescued as a pup from a
rampaging bear, hadn’t left Pete Binchey on his own in more than
five years. Each one had paid the other with deep investment. To Pete
Binchey, dog-doo had greater significance than the silly words
frequently used by trail companions and saloon chums.

When
the first snow fell before its due date, Binchey felt blind-sided. It
was early September and the normal future suddenly had kicked him
where it hurts. It had been a long while since he had been in the
high country. Two days earlier the range boss told him, with some
assurance, that snow was a good two weeks away and he’d have
plenty of time to haul in additional wood to keep him comfortable
until the pass froze over and rustlers couldn’t use the pass as a
breakaway route. As usual, Pete Binchey was aware of his
responsibilities and his situation in the on-going world, the two
notions often riding tandem with him, working on his consciousness;
his weapons were in excellent shape, ammo was at hand, supplies
closely guarded, eyes forever on the look-out, and Jacques Cree
always his ace in the hole. At that moment Binchey could not see the
gray face or the sleek gray body, or the deadly earnest, pale
yellow-green eyes of the dog, but every once in a while a shadow
would reveal itself with slight movement or a low growl would issue
from a seriously dark patch of ground cover. The cowpoke often wished
that trail hands had the same qualities as Jacques Cree, but, he’d
snicker, that was expecting too much of any human being.

Now,
early afternoon, snow coming a little thicker, a little heavier, the
skies already dark as axle grease, his horses were straining to get
the last of dropped logs back to camp. In one swing of the trail, the
final log suddenly slid easier on the snow and the horses found it
harder to get good footing. Eventually, with coaxing and a few harsh
curses the animals had to understand, they arrived beside the small
cabin. Smoke rose a thin, curling wisp into the afternoon air and the
rich pine odor seemed to circle his head with welcome. Even the
chilled toes in his boots accepted the greeting. With enough wood, he
figured, he could hold out until he could scramble down the mountain,
him and his two horses. And the wolf dog.

When
the snowfall lightened considerably, and then stopped completely,
Binchey spent the late afternoon hours working on the logs, sawing,
splitting, stacking a decent pile by the cabin door and off the
ground on slabs of rock. Jacques Cree, almost invisible, came to feed
when Binchey put out a chunk of cow beef and bone.

Silence,
after his tasks were done, seeped about the cabin like an invisible
mist had settled over them. It seemed to come from higher in the
range and also as if rising from the valley floor. In the awed
silence, birds quiet, animal calls few and far between, Pete Binchey
found an exultation sweeping through him; he had performed arduous
but meaningful labor, the horses were rubbed and fed, his muscles
felt sound and energetic, his disposition marking him as a happy
man, the natural order of things advancing with his efforts.

He
wondered how many men could enjoy the solitude that he found here in
the foothills. On the wide prairie it was another kind of solitude
that a man found, vaster, wider, but not as imperial. The domination
of mountains would do that, he surmised, and then let the equation
balance out. Of course, men in either situation would have to accept
their place, or make changes. His own pass at sitting still, at an
earned rest, allowed this revelation.

Jacques
Cree breathed again. Binchey heard nothing. The paw came down; a half
step had been made. The rifle was in the man’s hand as the dog
looked at him again, a half move to his head, the way a shadow moves
in shade. For a moment the man marveled at the instincts the wolf had
brought to this breed. Then he heard, over the cool earth, the
distant neighs of two horses, one answering another. The live round
was already jacked into the chamber; anyone friendly would have
announced themselves a hundred yards earlier.

“Here,
Jacques,” he whispered. The dog brushed against Binchey’s leg.

The
first round came through the door, as if the intruder had figured the
door would be opened directly, catching him in the act of opening the
door or waiting for it to be opened with force. A horse snickered
fairly close to the cabin. Binchey, settled in a corner, watching the
one window, the rifle in his hands aimed at the door, guessed the
horse to be thirty or so yards away. The bushwhacker would be in the
small gathering of rock fall near the cliff face. It would be good
cover against bullets but little against the weather. Night, with any
kind of early vengeance, would make demands. He chanced a look out
the one window and saw snow had started to fall again. Out there in
the cold, whoever they were would soon get cold. He could count on
that. He’d also count on any stalemate as one that would force them
back to where they had come from, or rush him.

Realization
said a bit of imagination often paid more dividends than bullets, of
that he was sure. And all the tools were in his hands.

He
whispered, “Jacques, the horses.” With those words, and a sniff
at a leather trace Binchey had used before, the wolf dog slipped out
the door the way he was born to such movement, a shadow in shade, a
piece of darkness in night, to do what he had done before for the man
who fed him, wrestled with him, rubbed his head during the night, was
ever his trail companion.

Binchey
could imagine the situation with the bushwhackers; cold setting in,
toes feeling it first or the fingers, bent in an uncomfortable crouch
so as not to catch a bullet, their horses standing apart. If the
intruders had donned ponchos or great coats, their mobility would be
seriously hampered. All of it registered with the cowboy, the methods
and reasons all predetermined.

The
snow kept falling. Minutes passed as slow as the snow fell through
the air. Another round, then another, hit the cabin. Binchey kept
low, avoiding the door, realizing that impatience was at work, as
well as the threat of a freezing night coming upon the shooters.

Another
shot hit the door. A voice yelled out, “C’mon, pardner, get
yourself out here or we burn you down. It sure ain’t worth holding
to this place. You gettin’ a sawbuck for your time?” Then a
second voice said, “He means all of that, pal. We ain’t sittin’
out here all night. You’ll see that.”

Pete
Binchey could have counted, could have seen the whisper of gray
slipping through the night, a thin coat of snow settling on the gray
coat, as Jacques Cree moved in a circular fashion from the cabin to
get near the bushwhackers’ horses. If he had a watch, he could have
picked the minute.

It
was all simultaneous, the wolf howl almost on top of the pair of
skittish horses, a cry that bounced off the cliff face and ran over
the pair of horses like a terror let loose. The second cry was barely
let out when the two horses bolted and ran right past the two men and
went on downhill, the wolfish cry sounding behind them, bouncing off
the rocks as clear as if from a megaphone.

A
deep voice set a new tone. “Dammit, Harv, I told you to hobble ‘em
off to good size rocks. Now look at ‘em. We got to quit this place
now. Try to get ‘em back. T’hell with this job.” He started
walking straight down the trail. “We got a couple tough hours ahead
of us.” Then, a bit farther off from the protective rocks, he
added, “We’re goin’, mister, sorry for the inconvenience. We
won’t bother you no more. Was that your dog? Are you the hombre
that once worked for the Bent Hook spread? Over Beaufort a ways?
Don’t have to answer, mister. Must be you. Give that hound a good
hunk of beef tonight. He sure is worth it.”

The
silence came back, the pillow of it piling on. And the snow continued
to fall as snow always falls on its own, without a wind, without a
sound, being silence itself. Even in the darkness, the night swelled
with it. And the wolf dog, back at wrestling, getting his head
rubbed, leaned his weight against the man who kept on rubbing, who
whispered his name over and over… Jacques Cree, old boy, Jacques
Cree, Jacques Cree.